Lisa Jackson - Malice

With a click, the woman flipped a switch.

The lights went out.

Olivia’s prison and the entire hull of the boat was suddenly black as pitch.

A door clanged shut.

Tears rolled down her face.

Olivia waited for the sound of liquid being splashed above, for the horrendous whoosh as a match was tossed and hungry flames ignited.

But there was only silence.

Hayes figured he was in for a long night as he drove to Encino. While Bentz and Martinez stared at the passing landscape, he called Corrine and bagged out of their late-night plans. Corrine had known he’d be working late and had suggested that he come over and crash at her place. Normally a good idea, but now that he had no idea what time he’d be done, he let her off the hook.

“You’re working overtime again? ” He heard the irritation in her voice, hoped the others in the car couldn’t hear her. “I guess I’ll take a rain check. Again.”

Corrine wasn’t happy, but there was nothing he could do about it now, on his way to Encino with two other detectives in the car.

He didn’t like making personal calls in front of other cops. Martinez and Bentz had tactfully looked the other way, but it was awkward. Especially since Corrine used to be hooked up with Bentz. Still, it was a choice of call while he was working the case, or not call at all.

That’s what happens when you have no life, Hayes thought as he took the exit for Encino. “Let’s hope Yolanda and Sebastian Salazar are home,” he said. A few blocks off Ventura Boulevard, the houses were small and compact, single-story, post-World War II, with big yards where the grass was beginning to turn brown.

The Salazars lived on a corner lot, the stucco covering their house painted a light color that resembled ash in the bluish glow from the streetlights. A large chain-link fence circled the side yard, where a sign in bold letters read: BEWARE OF DOG.

“Great.” Martinez shrank into the front seat. “I hate dogs.”

Hayes scowled. “How can you hate dogs?”

“Got bitten as a kid. Had to have plastic surgery and a lot of physical therapy. Harriet, the neighbors’ dachshund. Nasty little thing.”

“You can’t judge all dogs by Harriet.”

“Wanna bet?” she said as Hayes cut the engine.

“You know that they smell your fear, Martinez,” Bentz persisted. “As long as you’re afraid of them, you won’t be able to go near them.”

“Fine with me,” she said. “I’m happy to keep my distance.”

Before they opened the Toyota’s doors the dog in question began barking and snarling wildly from the other side of the fence. The furious creature was black and tan, with jaws as wide as Arkansas and teeth that flashed angrily. A Rottweiler mix from the looks of him, Hayes guessed.

“Oh, yeah, he’s gonna be a real sweetheart, this one.” Martinez’s hand was frozen on the door handle. “Let’s just call him Fluffy.”

In his rearview mirror, Hayes saw Bentz starting to get out of the backseat.

“Don’t even think about it,” Hayes told him. He couldn’t have Bentz go off half-cocked. As far as Hayes was concerned Bentz was advising on the case, nothing more. Although he didn’t side with Andrew Bledsoe and Dawn Rankin, who had insinuated that Bentz was somehow involved in the murders, he couldn’t allow Bentz to investigate for the LAPD. Bentz was no longer on the payroll here, and it would seriously compromise the case. He probably shouldn’t even have brought him here, but Hayes had to give the guy some credit. So far, Bentz had been the only one to make some real headway in this case.

Hayes barely glanced at the side yard as the dog created a ruckus loud enough to wake the dead. From the back of the house a man yelled, “Rufus! You hush!”

Rufus ignored the command. If anything, the big dog seemed more agitated than ever, running in circles and drooling anxiously as he kept up his incessant barking. Judging by the lack of grass on Rufus’s side of the fence, this wasn’t a new routine.

“So much for the element of surprise,” Hayes said under his breath.

Martinez glanced at the fence. “Let’s just hope the gate holds.”

As they reached the porch, a light over the door flipped on and the cement steps were bathed in a fake yellow glow. The door opened, leaving the grillwork of a screen door separating them from a slim woman with dark hair falling past her shoulders. She was wearing a white tank top, orange capris, and a bad-ass expression.

Hayes recognized Yolanda Salazar from the information Montoya had sent over. Her driver’s license didn’t do her justice; she was a helluva lot prettier in person, even in her bad mood.

“Can I help you?” she asked without a smile.

“I’m Detective Hayes, this is my partner, Detective Martinez, with the Los Angeles Police Department.” They showed their badges. “Are you Yolanda Salazar?”

A slight hesitation, then she nodded, barely moving her head. “Why are you here?”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?” In that instant her anger fled, to be replaced by fear. “Fernando? Is it my brother? Oh, Dios , don’t tell me he’s hurt or in trouble.” Without thinking she made a quick sign of the cross over her chest.

“No, nothing like that,” Hayes assured her. “We need to ask you about a car that you own, a 1999 Silver Chevrolet Impala, registered to Ramona Salazar.”

“Hey, is something wrong?” From within the house a man appeared. He was twice her size, all muscle and brawn, his tight T-shirt stretched over the broad span of his shoulders. His denim shorts hung low, almost falling off his slim hips. “What’s going on?”

“It’s the police,” she said, casting her husband a fearful look.

“You’re Sebastian Salazar?” Martinez asked.

“That’s right.” His accent was thick.

“We’re here to ask your wife a few questions about a car that belongs to her.”

Sebastian flinched. He turned to his wife and said something in rapid-fire Spanish that Hayes didn’t catch, but he figured Martinez might understand.

“Can we come in?” Martinez asked.

Husband and wife looked at each other, then Sebastian muttered something in Spanish before opening the door. “Please,” he said, white teeth flashing beneath a thick moustache. “Have a seat.” He waved them into matching chairs.

Remaining at the door, Yolanda peered out curiously. “Is your friend coming in?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Hayes suppressed a groan. Bentz was out of the car, standing in the pool of light at the chain-link fence, murmuring something to Rufus, who had finally stopped barking. “He’s fine out there,” Hayes said, trying to distract Yolanda Salazar. “Sorry to bother you, but if you could just-”

“Wait a minute.” Yolanda’s eyes were cold, black pebbles as her face hardened into a scowl. “Sebastian!” She motioned him toward the door, a stream of Spanish erupting between them. “Bastardo!” she hissed.

Alarmed, Sebastian crossed to the door and gaped at the atrocity his wife indicated.

Hayes ground his teeth together, knowing what this was all about. Bentz.

Yolanda wheeled on Hayes and Martinez. “Get out of my house! You bring a baby killer into my home? The hombre who killed my brother? Shot him dead?” She pointed an accusing finger to the street. “He is the cop who shot Mario, a twelve-year-old boy! An innocent.” Her upper lip curled into a snarl of distaste. “Leave now,” she insisted. And then, to Hayes’s horror, she flew out the door.

Pacing along the chain-link fence, Bentz was on the phone. “…I think her name was Judd. Yolanda Judd,” he said to Montoya as Yolanda herself burst out of the house. Bare feet flying, she cut across the yard and lunged toward him. “Baby killer!” she accused. “What are you doing here?”